Month One, Day One

I have no faith in this, in any of it. My body is too unremarkable, too ordinary. Sure, for the last few years I’ve cherished it – I’ve stuffed it with blueberries and pomegranates and other magical foodstuffs guaranteed to grant me eternal life, so I could make up for the long years in which I crammed it with nothing but beer and illegal drugs. But I’ve never cherished my body as a wonder to be preserved. Hell, no. I’ve cherished it because it's the carriage that contains the rest of me, and the rest of me must go on forever.

But now, suddenly, I am paying attention. I am asking my ordinary, unremarkable body to turn miracle factory. For nine months, I want it to churn and pump and mould and create, to spill forth, onto the conveyor belt of my life, a baby.

I do not – I cannot - believe that something as simple as sex is going to do this. Babies are divine. There must be more to it than sex. I need books, instruction manuals, rules.

I probably also need to offer sacrifices to the gods.

Dear Goddess of Fertility and Abundance. I will offer you my true love’s head on a plate if you will only give me a child.